


tachyarrhythmia

by goukyorin (sashimisusie)



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Fic Exchange, Gift Fic, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:39:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashimisusie/pseuds/goukyorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beggars—or private investigators down on their luck and drowning under the burgeoning weight of debt—can hardly be choosers.  Or can they? In which DeWitt and a certain R. Lutece provoke each other into doing several things in haste. Whether or not either of them regret it at the end of the encounter remains to be seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tachyarrhythmia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lagunaloire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lagunaloire/gifts).
  * Inspired by [pulse point (kiss meme)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/76649) by hemorrhxge. 



His list of vices is long, but drinking to inebriation in polite company is not one of them. It is not so much that Booker doesn't, but rather that he won't. Clients—potential or otherwise—tend to look down upon that sort of thing, and that saying about loose lips applies to drunks as well. Better to not risk it in the first place. There are demons and skeletons a-plenty beneath the shallow dirt of his past, that he needs not dig them up to be haunted by them.

But that's not to say he doesn't drink, ever. That it's the tail-end of a weekday night is reason enough for him to nurse a drink or five, shoulders hunched in preparation for his daughter's feeble cry to sound from the next room over. It matters not which day of the week it is; sleep will come no easier to him. That it is already two, three in the morning by the time the alcohol has settled warmly enough in the pit of his stomach to relax him, comes as no surprise to Booker.

However, the knock at the door _does_.

The men who came to collect would never rap at the windowpane so politely. He's had the frosted pane replaced on more than one occasion, when patience and money had run thinner than usual that month. He'd stepped over the mess on the floor, errant shards crunching loudly under his boot heels. There is no broken glass tonight, and the silhouette in the moonlit window can only belong to one man. A persistent, well-to-do Englishman, who has no doubt come to offer him the most terrible of propositions once more, but beggars—or private investigators down on their luck and drowning under the burgeoning weight of debt—can hardly be choosers.

_Or can they?_

Booker pulls open the office door with more force than is necessary, the storminess of his gaze precluding Robert Lutece's usual pleasantries. He does not drink when company is expected, and given that company's arrived and at an awfully impolite hour to boot, he is in no mood to waste breath bandying niceties about.

❝ What do you want? ❞ he asks, drawing himself forth from a slouch to his full height—though it is just a few inches shy of the other man's. Step, by measured step, he advances towards the other, the pace of his stalk pushing Robert back up against the solidity of the sole desk in the office-turned-home.

❝ DeWitt, far be it from me to state the obvious, but you are thoroughly besotted. ❞

He is quite, as the astute man before has been so kind in stating aloud, _besotted_. In multiple definitions of the word. It is a struggle to rein in what inhibitions alcohol has unfettered, green-eyed gaze glassy and wandering down paths not normally taken in sobriety. ❝ What could I possibly give you _right now_ , that I could not at a saner hour of the day? ❞

When Robert Lutece shrinks back, that damnable poise broken and freckled cheeks pale as the knuckles that grip the edge of the table, he feels an ugly twist of pride. This man, with the expensive three-piece suit, and proper English posture, is afraid of the possibility that lies in the unknowable, and of the things that he could do while not in possession of his faculties.

❝ One will often regret things done in— ❞

❝ Shut up, ❞ Booker says, soft as the whisper of fabric that rustles as he moves to close the distance between them, followed by the murmur of _"Fuck it."_ There is a sliver of neck tilted towards him, unmarred and comparable in paleness to the starched linen collar cinched about it. Here is where he presses his lips, nose bumping inelegantly against the solidity of the man's jaw.

Robert’s breath stills in his throat, a sharp intake that stops the words from fluttering away as surely as if a hand had been clasped over that clever mouth. Another moment passes, before Robert regains his voice, and with it, an edge to the clipped tone that quickens Booker’s own pulse to mirror the one racing by leaps and bounds under his attentive mouth.

❝ — _haste_. This is better than the alternative, I'd say. ❞

❝ What? There was a choice to make? ❞

❝ You were— **are** —dangerously close. You can hardly blame me for anticipating something less, ❞ The man pauses here, the silence of one searching for the correct word to use, and he feels, rather than sees, the bob of Robert's throat in a swallow. ❝ Amicable. ❞

❝ Anticipation, huh. ❞ With a small measure of reluctance, Booker draws himself back to better scrutinize the expression of the man in front of him. With unveiled interest, his gaze lingers on the tug of Robert's fingers worrying at tie and collar, flicking green eyes away just a the moment the man's thumb rubs a quick circle over the faint mark on his neck.

_❝_ Indeed. Men in your country only come this close for so many reasons,  _❞_   Robert says quite particularly, _❝_ And I rather dislike being cuffed. Don't you? ❞

❝ You get used to it quick. ❞ He meets wit with dry humour, taking the bait of the deliberate choice of words. If there's one thing he's proud about, it is that he's a man of action. Though the consequences of action may weigh heavily on his mind and stain his hands later, it cannot be said that Booker DeWitt ever sat by on the sidelines and just watched something happen.

He tugs his own collar loose, undoing the button at the base of his throat with a careless snap. The red silk slips, and puddles on the floor; Robert's gaze flickers to the shifting fabric, blue eyes keenly following the movement of Booker's fingers down to the uncovered skin at his neck.

So he is interested. Just as well.

❝ A gentleman shows up at a drunk fella's home at three in the morning. ❞ For every word, another button undone. ❝ I'm gonna make an educated guess and say this ain't one of your regular social calls. ❞

❝ You might be correct. And **I** might have had other expectations, gone errant, and thus changed the game. ❞ Reluctantly, the man's gaze returns up to meet his own. There is a beat of silence, time enough for him to break concentration at the flicker of Booker's tongue over chapped lips. ❝ You could have slept through it, were you resting. I rapped quietly enough. ❞

❝ But you didn't,❞ Booker is quick to point out, ❝And I didn't. Is this a game to you now?❞ After all, it takes two to play a game.

_❝_ You realize you are at a bit of a disadvantage, I hope. ❞ Robert tilts his head, ever proud and poised; the smile that curves over those lips is bordering mocking. ❝ I don't use the word lightly, **besotted**. I would hate for you to embarrass yourself. ❞

Booker snorts, well aware of what the man means. A little alcohol was good for inhibiting the inhibition, but as piss-drunk as he was, neither of them might like when they'd find. Which left the matter—and himself—in Robert Lutece's hands. It's not something he's considered before, but given the alternatives, it's not something he's opposed to either.

He steps closer, weaving slightly from equal parts light-headedness and alcohol. The grin that twists up the corner of his mouth is a curious, sly thing. ❝ Gettin' a little ahead of yourself, pal. But I suppose you're callin' the shots tonight. ❞

❝ I was under the impression I had always been. ❞ The admission that leaves Robert's mouth, and no sooner than when the last word is finished that he undoes the button on his suit jacket. Sliding out of the sleeves, he drops it carelessly onto the floor to join the growing mess of clothing and scattered paper. ❝ —You'll forgive me for not hanging it up properly somewhere. ❞

The suit jacket looks as if it costs more than the desk the man is leaning against. Knowing Lutece, it might very well. One expensive, if out of place, article of clothing hardly makes a difference in the chaos of Booker's darkened office. He finds he doesn't rightly care whether or not their clothing is a mess; if the man who wears starched collars and pressed trousers doesn't, then why on Earth would he?

❝ I'll forgive you the mess. But your cleaners might not. ❞ One last chance, by a drunken fool who knows better than to take things at face value, offered to the other to back out.

❝ Ah, are you worried for me? ❞ Robert's fingers slip into the waistband of Booker's trousers, tugging the detective by measures into a shallow pull. There's his answer, it seems. Side-stepping around slowly but surely, hips pressed close and intention, Booker finds himself having swapped places with the other, the desk now pressing into the back of his thighs. ❝ In any case, I'll figure something out, I'm sure. ❞

There is precious little warning given when Robert moves to break the distance between them, lips pressing hard against his own. How fitting that the disreputable rogue, who stole the first brush of skin against skin, has been stolen from in return by his mark. Booker's eyes widen a fraction in surprise, before winding his hands into the other's hair to pull him in.

Just like that, the floodgate of restraint crumbles, and once-closed mouths are parted. They break for the barest minimum of breaths, hands wandering and fingers working at buttons. The pile of clothing on the floor grows, each garment discarded without care. Booker notes, with equal parts amusement and disbelief, that in between the hot press of his mouth against the other's, Robert has not stopped murmuring of could-haves and should-haves.

❝ Could we do somethin' about that mouth of yours? ❞ Booker draws back from the heat of the moment, eyes are narrowed and studying the energetic flutter of the gentleman’s pulse. ❝ Put it to better use than your constant chatterin'. ❞

In hindsight, goading the man with the look of devilment on his face is perhaps not the greatest of ideas that Booker's had, when he finds himself bent double over the desk. True to his remark, Robert has found other uses for that mouth of his, the warm wetness of a tongue teasing at places Booker has never considered finding pleasure in before tonight.

With one hand wrapped around his cock, he bites back a moan, and then another. Not nearly muffled enough, when he feels the man's laughter dance across his damp skin, a shiver arcing down the length of his spine. There is no room for pretense after that, merely the lap of Robert's tongue between his ass, and the quiet breathlessness of Booker holding back the evidence of his own enjoyment. His daughter, small and unaware as she may be, is still in the other room, and the walls of this office are already too thin for comfort.

It is both too soon, and not soon enough when he spills messily over his hand, a shuddering exhalation that turns the edges of his already-warped vision into a post-sexual gratification haze. Booker shifts, turning to rest his back against the blessedly-sturdy desk, and watches Robert's gaze rove hungrily over him, taking him apart piece by flushed piece. It feels like an eternity before someone speaks next.

❝ _Why_ , Mister DeWitt, ❞ Robert murmurs at last, moving to splay his hands splayed over the detective's chest, ❝ Don't tell me you're spent for tonight. ❞

Booker rolls his eyes, and pulls the man down for another kiss. ❝ Wouldn't dream of it, Lutece. ❞

**Author's Note:**

> A fic trade with [hemorrhxge](http://cognitivedissonance.co.vu/) (who provided much of the dialogue for Robert Lutece), the prompt being ass eating. Originally posted over at my [Booker DeWitt](http://columbiacalling.tumblr.com/) roleplay blog.


End file.
